roses are red
by whizz
Summary: kubota/tokito; the world's crumbling and the clock's ticking. in a minute, kubota is going to get up - and there's only one name in his head.


**anime/manga; **Wild Adapter  
**pairing; **Kubota/Tokito  
**warnings; **character deaths, gore, angst, male/male pairing, yaoi  
**disclaimer; **I do not own Wild Adapter or any of the characters used.

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i**f** t_**i**_me _w_**a**s a c**o**_l_or, i **b**e_t_ i**t**'_d_ b**e**..

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..Red.

Tokito's first smile had been a miracle on its own; tentative, seemingly easy to break at the dainty seams, but mesmerising nonetheless - filled with the fear of rejection and the unsuppressed hope of a small child. His straight-forward stride, always with an impatient bounce to it. His devotion to doing good and making himself useful, despite the cursing and complaining. His gorgeous, expression-filled eyes that broke from illuminated blue to pastel-violet to deep purple towards the end of the iris, infected and raw and unable to hide anything.

It was all red; rose-petal-red, tinged with a calm, soothing pink - a reminder of innocent days overflowing with silent awe and a habitual life easy enough to fall into.

Kubota finds it in the back of his vast mind that it indeed was a long time ago.

Tokito's first time crying had been not too unlike the solace you find in the healing drops of a quiet rain fall - he'd fallen too far into the bottomless hole that seemed to open up inside of his head at times and swallow all other thoughts, and Kubota had found him curled up in their too-small closet where heaps of their clothing were thrown haphazardly, his lean arms wound tightly around his own knees, claws tearing through the material of his jeans and face hidden against his shaking legs. His refreshing way of clinging to the front of Kubota's dress shirt without shame, muttering of bad dreams with no end ("Minorou, Minorou, he says.."). His thoughts that could fall in complete sync with Kubota's, the reassurance of knowing something without speaking and feeling the other's unnerving worry without having to look for it in blank eyes.

That was red, too; a firm red, like the crackling fire in a fire place, like the sun's last trembling rays sent off before disappearing beneath the horizon, making the sky its personal untouched paper. The red that described a connection, the forming of a bond, and secrets exchanged through actions rather than speech.

Ahhh, and then..

The first time he'd showed up at the front door, bloody and battered but very much alive, something new ignited in his inhuman orbs that spoke of great intensity. It was not long after the kidnapping-incident on the large ship.

"I love you, Kubo-chan", he'd confess to the almost non-existent space between their two entangled bodies, pale moonlight cast upon the worn-out bed, the ash tray by it and the news papers thrown across the floor. Tokito would be passionate, strong, but holding on to Kubota's arms so tightly it left bruises - trailing kisses of worship down the curve of the older man's neck, scratching lightly down his sides, pulling him impossibly close until it felt like they were a unity moving in a steady rhythm; nails and claws tightly gripping Kubota's hair, firm thighs wrapped around Kubota's hips, and even though Kubota was granted with Tokito's trust, it felt as if it was _him _coming apart before the stray that had left permanent marks deep inside of the untouched parts closest to his heart.

It was red; intense red, a glowing red, a red sparkling with life; the kind that tasted of bittersweet tears and the wonder of free-falling, the blood-shot red that spoke of threats and murder and two paths twirling together towards a dead end - the red of burning feelings beneath smoke-scented covers, powerful and pumping and growing-

Kubota has to draw a deep breath in; has to collect himself - for Tokito's sake, really. _He's _the one constantly claiming that Kubota is the calmer of the two, the steady one, the unfazed one.

It's necessary, see, for what he is about to do; see, in just a couple of minutes, Kubota is going to get up, ignoring the blood stains splattered across his shirt and the crimson finger prints dotted and drawn across his face.

He is going to walk out into the hall, take out the two big blokes standing there waiting; one with a gun, the other with a pocket knife - not that he will have the time to reach for it, though; barely think about it, really.

He is going to continuing further into the system room, where he expects approximately four or five gang members to be located. It will be a pure pleasure to decorate the walls with every single one of their brain intestines; yeah, you know, all of that slimy and slippery stuff clad in (_red_).

He is going to make his way up the stairs, eliminating any possible obstacles carrying a weapon - in his rage and with the adrenaline shooting throughout his veins, he is most certain that he won't find it in his interest to count them; just think of the fastest yet most brutal way to make them stop moving for good.

At last, he is going to reach the storage room where he knows Sanada will be located - cause only a fool would go for his actual office - and once he has killed the two to three men protecting that old bastard, he is going to swiftly kick him in the head once, applying enough pressure to make him a bit dizzy but unable to pass out just yet. He is going to pin him to the floor none-too-gently, face-first into the cold floor with a resounding crack as the bones in his nose slam together and apart. He is going to properly discard him of any gun or other possible weapon, expecting a few tricks up his dirty-playing sleeve but figuring it shouldn't be nowehere near to something he can't handle.

And then, the fun begins. Perhaps he'll have him beg for forgiveness, impossible to imagine as that is. He is going to make certain that the soul-less imbecile is exactly aware of what troubles he has caused, and how that truly _feels. _He is going to break some bones, create some open wounds, listen to the sickening sound of body parts bending in unnatural ways as he'll inform him about the circumstances. He is going to hear Sanada out, just for a bit, before perhaps kicking him across the face and throwing him around a bit, from one wall to another.

The excitement coursing through his blood is a bit distracting, so Kubota has to draw another breath in, fumbling for a packet of smokes he knows won't be in the pocket of his ruined pants.

He isn't sure how to actually put an end to Sanada. What destiny could possible be cruel enough for such a thorough _rotten _human being, if he even was _that_?

Perhaps he'll make him choke on his own goddamn Ark Royals, see how many cigarettes fits into that mouth that delivers nothing but lies and gory orders. Or he'll just get too lost into the torture, and accidentally beat him to death - now, there would be no fun in that.. Kubota knows one thing for sure; he won't settle it merely with a fast, merciful pistol shot to the heart. Maybe he'll leave him tied on the floor and burn the whole building down, this awful reminder - wait, he is probably going to do that either way.

In a minute, Kubota is going to get up and commit as many murders as humanly possible in order to reach the real goal; that is, the symbol of all that is ruthless, criminal and completely cold-blooded. Sanada.

Afterwards, he is going to stumble down the streets of Yokohama, listening to the sirens in the distance, to the helicopters high above and not give a damn about the people giving his ruffled-up appearance a shocking expression. He is going to stumble into the apartment, _their _apartment, where memories both horrid and life-changing and completely, utterly wonderful are being kept, lingering presences and promises drawn by fingertips meeting skin in the comfort of the night.

Once there, Kubota is going to open the door to the bedroom still fresh with familiar scents, still traced by shared body warmth, and fall down on his knees before it.

He is going to smile; a sincere smile from the very pit of his heart, face blood-streaked and glasses broken somewhere in some alley. He is going to mumble with a hoarse voice ("hey, Tokito, I made it, see?") before putting the Sig Sauer P226 to his mouth, no hesitation and no doubt as he twitches his trigger finger down by pure reflex and lets the insides of his skull explode all over the bedroom where he has lived and twistedly loved despite his belief that he would die lonely and apathetic.

Then again, he asks himself, is it better _this _way?

Yes, in just a second Kubota is going to get up and proceed with his carefully made plan, strict and punctual to the very detail.

He just needs another moment to savour with the forever-still body of his partner, his stray cat, his main gear wheel to the complicated mechanism of his monochrome life. Just a minute longer in his fading presence, the blood-drenched clothes and limp hands that had gripped him so tightly moments before losing to their own weight.

And it's all red; changing in hues, blinking with brutal force, splashed all around him and on him and inside him. Red, red, red.

In just a couple of minutes, Kubota is going to get up.

**A/N; **awfully angsty.. my bad. i love this pairing and manga to bits, it'd be impossible to explain. wrote this on a whim in less than an hour. thanks for reading. 


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